


The Hobbiton Fête

by AlexStone



Series: Tolkientober [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Class Differences, F/M, M/M, Mix of English town fetes and Scottish country dancing, Prom fic, Sam asks Frodo to the dance, Summer Fête, Things go wrong before going right again, Tolkientober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexStone/pseuds/AlexStone
Summary: Set in the period between Bilbo's 111th birthday and the hobbits departure to Rivendell. Sam asks Frodo to the Hobbiton fête, but things don't go as planned.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee
Series: Tolkientober [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948141
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	The Hobbiton Fête

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece for Tolkientober! The prompt is 'Your Favourite Character,' and I've had a lot of fun finally getting around to writing from Sam's POV. I hope you like it!
> 
> I've used the names for Sam's sisters that mollyknox used in 'In All The Ways There Were.'

Bilbo Baggins’ 111th birthday party lingered in the Hobbiton air like the last of the summer leaves, before descending to the ground where new memories could be sown. Hobbits are not unique amongst the races of Middle Earth for their love of celebrations, but they retain a sense of oneupmanship that demands a good party be followed by a better party. As such, the Hobbiton midsummer fête had become the subject of enormous social importance. Even Hofur Himbleweed, who had not set foot in the Shire since the great pumpkin dispute of 2876, was rumoured to be sponsoring a fireworks display that would, in his words, " _make that wizard wish he never crossed the Brandywine_."

Samwise Gamgee, content, hummed to himself as he trimmed the petunias outside Bag-End. The blanket flower and rudbeckia had survived the worst of the summer heat, and he had identified a perfect square for daffodil bulbs when autumn arrived. He stood, perspiring after a long days work, and shook the dirt from his hands. Bag-End, once more, was the envy of Hobbiton gardens, not that any would admit it.

Sam knocked on the open door of Bag-End. “Hello, Master Frodo?,” he called, “that’s me finishing up for you now, sir.”

Frodo Baggins’ head emerged from around the corner to Master Bilbo’s study. His hair was tied in a loose ponytail, and he was leafing through a series of loose papers.

“Thank you Sam, the garden looks terrific, as always,” Frodo walked to the door and peered outside. Turning back to his papers, his brow furrowed at a leaflet for the Hobbiton midsummer fête.

“The fête! Are you going, master Frodo?” Sam asked, leaning on the open door frame.

Frodo looked at Sam, eyebrows raised. “I’ll be honest, I’m still handling the mess from Bilbo’s last party, I had completely forgot about this.”

“Oh, but you have to go!” Sam exclaimed, “Everyone in the Shire will be there!”

“That’s not the encouragement you think it is,” Frodo smiled, eyes darting back into Bag-End.

Sam pursed his lips. He had practiced this in front of his bathroom mirror. He only had one shot. “Mister Frodo, what if I asked you?”

A pause. “To go to the fête that is,” Sam stammered, “to go- with me- we could go- together.”

Frodo blinked, and a faint smile crept across his face. “You know what, Sam,” he smiled, “I like the sound of that.”

Sam paused. “Forgive me, master Frodo, is that a yes?”

“Yes, Sam, I’ll go with you,” Frodo laughed and turned back into the cool corridors of Bag-End “and please, just call me Frodo.”

It was because of this that Samwise Gamgee was later found knee-deep in his Gaffer’s wardrobe, tossing clothes over his shoulder in a state of moderate-to-severe panic. Despite imagining this moment for many months he had neglected to attend to a total lack of anything appropriate to wear. This was, as Sam explained to his elder sister May, a total disaster.

“It’s not that bad,” May sighed, tiptoeing across mountains of moth-bitten clothing, “I still don’t understand why you aren’t wearing your own clothes.”

“Sure, I’ll escort Mister Baggins in gardening overalls,” Sam buried his head into the back of the wardrobe, “May, he’s a _Baggins_. They’ve got china sets, and treasure maps, and books! He wouldn’t want to be seen with a gardener.”

May rolled her eyes. “I’ve got this,” she mouthed at Daisy and Marigold Gamgee, who had peeked their heads around the bedroom door.

“Here it is!” Sam exclaimed, stumbling backwards from the wardrobe clutching a purple dust-coated package.

May, Daisy, and Marigold Gamgee sat in their living room as Sam posed. Hamfast Gamgee’s father was once a committed member of the Hobbiton root vegetable appreciation society. Their uniform consisted of a pea-green three-piece suit, lined at the neck and cuffs with a mustard yellow ruff. The chest pocket was emblazoned with the long retired crest of what could charitably be described as a hobbit holding a large carrot. While the decades had not been kind to the society, they had been even worse to this suit. The green had faded into a pale imitation and the knees were about as thin as could be maintained without disintegrating.

May put her palms together and pursed her lips. “It does… fit you,” she looked to Daisy for support.

“Does it?” Daisy asked, before receiving a sharp elbow in the ribs, “oh yes, it looks good. Great, even!”

Marigold looked at her elder sisters in horror. “Is Mister Baggins looking for a new antique?” she asked, ignoring the furious glares from May and Daisy.

“Sam, are you sure about this?” May crossed the room and dusted a cobweb off the jacket’s shoulder, “Frodo obviously likes you, can’t you just be yourself?”

“He likes me as a gardener,” Sam pulled away, trying to piece the frayed buttons together, “I want him to see me as something more than that. If this is what I need to do, then I’ll do it.”

May pursed her lips. “I see. We should do something about your hair then.”

The evening crept steady onwards, and the Hobbiton Fête soon sprawled across the village green. Stalls and wagons and tents and ponies constructed a labyrinth of festivities. Hobbit children shrieked with delight as Bree strongmen lifted them onto their shoulders. Sam sat on a knoll with views over the festival. He fiddled with his jacket, and scratched his head. Marigold had used a waxen ointment to hold his natural curls in place, but this had since hardened into a brittle tangle of unkempt hair. 

Sam looked out over the fête. He could see the distinctive sign of the Green Dragon tavern, and wondered in Rosie would be covering the shift. Beyond the rolling hills of the Shire the sun was setting, drenching the sky in pink and amber. Sam imagined himself walking over those hills, as far as he had ever been from Hobbiton. 

His thoughts were interrupted at a familiar voice travelling down the path. Sam jumped to his feet, dusting grass off of his seat, and took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves.

“Pip, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Bilbo doesn’t have a pet dragon in Bag End. I don’t understand why you listen to a word Lotho Sacksville-Baggins tells you,” Frodo laughed, rounding the corner. Merry and Pippin flanked him on either side.

Pippin spotted Sam first and almost choked on the apple he was eating.

Merry slapped his wheezing cousin on the back as Frodo hurried over, “Sam, I’m glad I found you! I ran into Merry and Pippin on the way here. Isn’t that great? We can go together, just like old times.”

Sam felt his stomach turn. There was no reason to object to company, even if it changed everything he had imagined about this night. He steeled himself, and smiled at Frodo, “of course mister Frodo, I mean, Frodo sir.”

Frodo lightly touched Sam’s arm. “Just Frodo,” he said.

“I love it!” Merry clapped Sam and Frodo on their shoulders, “the gang back together again! Listen Sam, you have got to work your magic on Buckland at some point. Frodo has been gushing about what you’ve done to Bag End.”

“He has?” Sam felt himself blushing, “I’m not usually in the East Farthing, but I guess I could…”

“Merry, if you poach my gardener I will tell Farmer Maggot that you’ve been pinching his pumpkins again,” Frodo said sternly. Sam felt a shiver run up his spine. _Gardener_.

“This is all very thrilling,” Pippin sighed, “but can we please get a move on? I don’t want to spend any more of this evening sober. By the way Sam, I love the outfit. Does it come in your size?”

The group made their way past the entrance to the fête, and Pippin made a beeline directly for the Green Dragon tavern. Rosie Cotton’s eyebrows almost took off like a summer firework when she saw Sam’s outfit, but she held onto her composure. Four tankards of Tuckburough mead later, and Sam was beginning to feel a bit better.

Pippin let out a cry of joy, and pulled Merry towards one of the more crowded stalls. “They have a raffle!” Pippin bounced with excitement, before pleading with Merry to buy him a ticket.

“Can I buy you a ticket?” Sam asked, internally counting each of the coins in his pocket.

“Sam, I…” Frodo frowned, several different thoughts passing across his face at once, “yes, thank you, that would be very nice.”

Sam sidled through the crowd and fished out his purse. He had put the largest portion of his allowance towards a fixing the roof in Marigold’s room, and had been thinking about spending the last of it on a new pair of shears. He bit his lip and weighed the coins in his hand, before handing a pair of them to the hobbit behind the counter. Enough for a single strip of numbers.

Sam returned to Frodo and saw Merry wielding what looked like half a book of raffle tickets. Pippin was loudly describing what he planned to do with his winnings, and Frodo had a carefree smile on his face that made Sam’s whole world slow to a crawl. He looked down at the single strip of tickets that he had bought, before crumpling them in his pocket.

“They sold out,” he shrugged in what he hoped was a convincing lie, “I think Merry bought the last ones.”

“Merry, you shouldn’t have!” Pippin exclaimed, before whispering conspiratorially “No, but you really should have. Well done. I’ll split the pipe-weed with you when we win it.” 

“Don’t worry Sam,” Frodo gestured at the raffle prizes, “It’s all sundries anyway. Hardly worth it!”

“Yeah, hardly worth it,” Sam murmured, before being shepherded further into the festival.

Several hobbits were arguing near the bandstand. Theo Bramblethorn, the loudest amongst them, was attempting to hold court as to who should lead the first dance. Merry rolled his eyes at the sight and pleaded with Frodo to avoid Theo at all costs. Sam felt an uncomfortable prickling in his chest. There were so many conversations he had imagined having with Frodo, so many ways he had imagined this night going.

There was something about Frodo’s smile that made him pause. Frodo was always so thoughtful. However, since Bilbo’s last birthday and departure from Bag End, Frodo had become introverted, preferring to spend the hot summer days indoors. Sam remembered summer’s past, when Frodo would sit in the garden while Sam worked. He knew that Frodo watched him, and pretended not to notice. It didn’t feel like the right moment, not like he had imagined it. In Sam’s mind he saw Frodo’s delicate features silhouetted against the dawn, his eyes as deep and wild as the Brandywine. Sam dreamed about lying against Frodo’s chest, and Frodo would read some fantastic adventure to him, and all the doubting voices in his mind would be quiet.

“Sam, it’s your turn!” Frodo nudged, breaking Sam out of his day-dream. Sam looked around, and remembered that they had moved on to an apple bobbing stall. Pippin was snacking on his prize, grinning at the other hobbits.

“Maybe it isn’t a good idea, Frodo,” Pippin bit down on his apple, “that suit looks pretty fragile.”

“That’s not very nice, Pip,” Frodo scolded, before turning to Sam, “you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to!” Sam hurried over the bucket of apples. Without hesitation he plunged his head into the water, trying to grip and apple with his teeth. Apples bobbed and swirled around his head, and after a moments struggle he rose with a smaller apple clutched in his mouth. He looked back at the hobbits, pleased with himself.

Pippin was biting his lip to hold laughter back. Merry had his hand over his mouth in shock. Frodo had a stunned expression on his face. Sam looked down. The ruff around his neck had become disentangled in the water, and was now hanging limply along the length of the suit.

Sam felt a cold chock run through his body. He was aware of Frodo and Merry rushing around him, trying to help with the suit. Merry attempted to ease the ruff back into place, but the water damage was thorough, and more of the collar started to come undone. Merry backed off, hands raised.

“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry,” Frodo grimaced, “it really isn’t that bad. I’m sure you can get that fixed, it won’t cost too much.”

Sam felt a hot prickle at the corners of his eyes, and a lump begin to rise in his throat. “M-my Gaffer…” he stammered, before pushing past Frodo and running into the crowds.

He was aware of Frodo and Pippin calling after him, but he didn’t stop. His vision began to blur, and hobbits swayed across his path. He could feel them looking at him, laughing at him, pointing out that he didn’t belong there. He swung right off the main thoroughfare and found a dark corner. The tears came freely now, and he felt more pathetic than he had ever felt in his life.

The fête continued. Hobbits drank, danced, and joked. The sounds of merriment drifted across Hobbiton, mingled with music and the wind in the trees. Sam looked up, blinking tears out of his eyes, and wondered why he felt so out of place in the only world he had ever known. He looked around himself, realising he was stood behind one of the larger stalls, with several upturned barrels stacked around him. He did not notice the other hobbit before she spoke.

“Looking for a drink?”

Sam spun around and saw Rosie Cotton sat on a makeshift bench. He suddenly realised he had found his way back to the Green Dragon tavern’s stall. Rosie swirled the dregs in her tankard, before emptying them out onto the ground.

“I’m sorry Rosie,” Sam quickly wiped his eyes, “how long have you been sat there?”

“Don’t worry,” Rosie said “I’ve seen you cry before. I’m assuming this isn’t a stubbed toe, or your sisters bullying you?”

Sam laughed, and immediately regretted it, feeling tears spring back into his eyes. He took a deep breath, and sat down on the bench next to Rosie.

“Bad luck with Frodo?” Rosie asked, “don’t look so surprised. Master Took has been talking everyone’s ear off about it. He seems enthusiastic abut the whole thing.”

“Pippin?” Sam felt embarrassed at how angry he had been with Frodo’s friend, “Do you think he told a lot of people?”

“Sam, I’m saying this as a friend,” Rosie grinned, “I think half of Hobbiton knows how much you like Mister Baggins. You practically skip to his house each morning. Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins is convinced you two are going to elope with her inheritance.”

Sam felt a smile creep across his face. “Lobelia can think what she wants, Frodo wants even less to do with her than Bilbo did.”

Rosie giggled and walked over to a cask of Brandybuck red. She filled two small tankards, and handed one to Sam.

“I wanted to impress Mister Frodo, and it’s all gone so wrong,” Sam sighed, recounting the events of the evening.

Rosie listened the story, wincing when Sam got to the part with the apple cart. “That is definitely a top ten worst first dates,” she said, sipping her wine, “and I’ve been on some pretty bad first dates.”

“Rosie, if I had known about your walnut allergy I would have never made that pie,” Sam apologised.

“Sam, that was years ago,” Rosie grimaced, before listing bad dates on her fingers “you didn’t throw up on me, get into a fight with my mother, or try to show off to your ex. You were a true gentleman, even if you did almost accidentally kill me.”

They sat and laughed at memories of times long gone. Sam looked back up at the sky, and remembered sitting as a child with Rosie on the rolling hills of the Shire. They would find faces in the clouds, make twist daisy chains together long into the afternoons. There was something inseparable about them, something about the way they could finish each others thoughts. Sam sometimes wondered why it hadn’t worked out. Whenever Rosie stepped forward, he took a step back. She was always so much bolder than he was, so full of sunshine. He was blinded by her light.

“Sam, I’ve got to be honest with you,” Rosie gestured at his outfit, “what is going on here?”

Sam looked down at his outfit. He saw the ill-fitting shape and faded colours. He saw the crest of a guild that hadn’t operated in the Shire for thirty years. The complete silliness of the situation began to dawn on him.

“I don’t know, “ Sam struggled out of the blazer and rolled up his sleeves. “I guess I wanted to make a good impression.”

“You certainly make an impression,” Rosie said, turning to Sam. She paused, with her finger at her lips. She leaned along the bench, and helped untie his cravat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. She reached up and ruffled his hair, breaking the waxen coating. “There, that’s a bit more… you,” she said.

Sam felt his curls dangle across his face. He looked up and gave a sheepish smile. “I don’t know if I fit in with them. Pippin is the son of a thain, Merry is the heir to the Master of Buckland, and Frodo is… well, he’s a Baggins. I don’t know why they spend time with me.”

Rosie frowned. “That isn’t fair, Sam. They like you. Even Pippin likes you, despite his… everything. Sometimes people struggle to show that. I think you know how that feels. They like who you are, not someone who you are pretending to be.”

Sam sighed and felt a knot in his chest unfurl. He felt all the bitter words he had for himself, all the ways he had put himself down, dissolve into silence. He knew that Rosie was right. “You’re a good one, Rosie Cotton,“ Sam said softly.

Sam turned to Rosie. He had two sudden realisations. The first was that he had forgotten just how green Rosie’s eyes were. The second was that, with how close they were sitting, he could count every freckle on her face. A strange feeling a gravity overtook him, and he felt a dry tingle on his lips.

A smash pierced the silence, followed by a yell from the Green Dragon stall. Exasperation came over Rosie’s face.

“I should…” Rosie frowned, pointing back towards the stall.

“Yeah,” Sam rubbed the back of his head, “don’t let the hobbits get you down.”

Rosie rolled her eyes and hurried back to the stall. Sam sat for a moment, emotions spinning in his chest like the seasons. He looked back at the festival, with all of its dancing and merriment and life. He stood and began to walk towards it, before stopping. A small patch of white flowers with yellow heads were blossoming along the path. He crouched down and cupped the blossoms in his hands. As gently as he could manage, Sam picked one of the larger blossoms and threaded it through one of the open button holes on his shirt.

Sam walked through the festival. Drunk hobbits stumbled around him. He saw the main square, with the maypole and dancers. Merry and Pippin were sat on the edge of the dance, roaring with laughter. Frodo sat beside them, with a thoughtful smile on his face.

“Excuse me, mister Frodo…” Sam started, before something huge erupted behind him.

Sam spun around and saw the beginnings of a firework display. Children screamed and rushed to gain better vantage. He turned back to Frodo and saw him gazing wide eyed at the fireworks, bursts of red and gold reflected in his eyes. Sam turned back to watch the fireworks illuminate the night.

The display culminated with a theatrical bouquet of red and explosions. Indignant children were led away by parents. The band changed pace, and a lone piper began a slow three-step tune. Sam sat next to Frodo. Merry began to whistle along with the piper.

“Costume change?” Pippin teased.

“Blow me, Pip,” Sam shrugged. Pippin gasped, and Merry burst out laughing.

“I think Sam looks dashing,” Frodo interrupted before Pippin could retort, “the flower is a nice addition.”

Sam felt his heart miss a beat. “It’s nothing, just some bloodroot,” he said.

The piper continued to play, transitioning to a folk waltz. “Say, mister Frodo, I know you haven’t danced this evening,” Sam stood from the bench and turned to Frodo, “and I was hoping that you might want to- that is- dance- this evening- at some point- with me- now- that is, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Silence. Frodo looked at Sam. Sam could see the sharp lines of his cheeks, framing his face in shadow and light.

“I would love to dance with you, Sam,” Frodo offered his hand to Sam, and rose from his seat.

Merry let out a howl of frustration before pulling out his purse. Frodo and Sam turned to look at the pair. “We were betting on who would ask first,” Pippin grinned, “cheers Sam. You just bought my next round.”

“You two are, without a doubt, the absolute worst,” Frodo rolled his eyes.

“Love you too,” Pippin mouthed, blowing a kiss across the table.

Sam and Frodo walked to the edge of the dancing square. Sam was very aware of his shaking knees and sweating palms. The music suddenly seemed very loud, and all the dancers seemed to be moving in different directions.

“Shall we agree to asker’s lead?” Frodo crossed in front of Sam, placing his hands in a following position over Sam’s shoulders.

Sam blinked, and held his arms like stiff rods at Frodo’s waist. Following the start of a new refrain, he led Frodo into the dance. Lead, step, step, turn, step, step, right, _no left_ , step, turn, _wait that was wrong_...

Sam dropped his hands to his side. Dancers whirled around the two of them. “I’m sorry, Frodo,” Sam said, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Now Sam,” Frodo raised Sam’s chin until their eyes met, “you won’t give up that easy, will you?”

Sam looked into those eyes that held his entire world. He placed his hands on Frodo’s waist. He knew this dance. _The Pride of Hobbiton Waltz_. He began to lead. Swing, step step step, turn, step step step, cross foot, cross foot, whirl into waltz pose, step, turn, step, turn, step step step.

The other dancers fell away. So did the maypole, and the bandstand, and the festival. Merry and Pippin faded too, as did the Hobbiton, and so did the Shire, and the whole world. Two hobbits danced, illuminated by the music of a thousand stars.

“So, how was it?” Marigold asked. It was the next morning, and the smell of thick coffee and frying bacon filled the Gamgee kitchen. Marigold squeezed between May and Sam, and stole a potato scone from Daisy’s plate. “You were _very_ late getting in last night,” she drawled, making pretend kissing noises.

“Gross!” yelled Daisy, flicking a baked bean at Marigold’s head.

“Leave him alone,” May rubbed her temples, “although Sam, the next time you stay out until dawn, please try to be quiet about it. I hardly slept.”

“I bet Sam hardly slept either,” Marigold crooned, her eyebrows raised in delight.

Sam didn’t say a word. He was lost in thought, gazing out of the small window that overlooked the village green. The festival had long since packed up, and the few remaining hobbits sleeping were hurried along by their more respectable neighbours. Yet all of this could have been happening in Bree because Sam was lost in thought, reliving the moment he twirled Frodo and leaned in to…

“If I never get a seat at my own table it won’t be soon enough,” Hamfast Gamgee shouted, flicking through the morning post. He grabbed a slice of toast from the table, and hummed a small tune to himself. “Sam, this one is for you,” he said, tossing a letter in Sam’s direction.

Marigold lunged at the letter, catching it before Sam could respond. “It’s from Bag End!” she shrieked, tearing through the seal and opening it.

“Marigold, if you read Sam’s post I am going to nail your diary to the Hobbiton notice board,” May said sternly. Marigold cried foul play, before rolling her eyes and passing the letter to Sam.

Sam’s heart missed a beat as he recognised Frodo’s handwriting. “He’s asked me to work an extra shift next week,” he said, “and… he’s asked me to come to dinner with him tonight.”

Chaos erupted at the Gamgee table. All three sisters began speaking in unison, Marigold hysterically declaring this to be the happiest day of her life, May demanding to know if Sam was going to be paid for his extra shift, and Daisy explaining what Sam should and shouldn’t do if offered shellfish for dinner.

“Quiet!” Hamfast roared, silencing the siblings, “I think you are all forgetting something.”

Hamfast Gamgee produced a small brown package from beneath the sink, and passed it across the table. “It’s not much,” Hamfat said, “but I think you should get out of those overalls once in a while. Plus you won’t need to steal your granddad’s clothes anymore.”

Sam unwrapped the present. Inside was a maroon flannel shirt and a new waistcoat. He looked up at his family, eyes shining.

“It’s perfect,” he smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter at @AlexStoneWriter. I will be putting up shorter pieces for the remained of Tolkientober. You can find the full list of prompts here: https://twitter.com/hobbitgay/status/1311350783238045696


End file.
